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<title>My Son, My Killer by DanielVanDerLinde</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888076">My Son, My Killer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanielVanDerLinde/pseuds/DanielVanDerLinde'>DanielVanDerLinde</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:01:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanielVanDerLinde/pseuds/DanielVanDerLinde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly a week of being away from camp, Arthur returns bruised, bloody, and dirty. Dutch missed his boy...his son...his killer...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Morgan &amp; Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My Son, My Killer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                The sun had set hours ago.</p><p>                After nearly a week away, Arthur Morgan returned to camp covered in dried blood, dirty, and utterly fatigued. He ignored the jeer from Bill Williamson on watch and rubbed at his sore jaw.</p><p>                After Arthur hitched his mare and stumbled the way toward his tent, he could not remember another time in his life when he had been so tired; mentally burned out and physically dead. Between the stresses of providing not only money, but also for the camp--adding in Dutch van der Linde's latest and greatest bull shit plan, Arthur's feet felt like they were made of lead; each step harder and far clumsier and heavier than the last.</p><p>                The camp was quiet for once. The only sound was the noises of the night; a crackling fire, the occasional owl, and the lull of insects. It seemed even Javier Escuella and his guitar had retired at a decent hour.</p><p>                In Arthur's overtired state, he managed to trip over several discarded pots and pans near Pearson's wagon.</p><p>                "Goddamn it!" Arthur cursed as he fell.</p><p>                "Arthur?"</p><p>                "Shit!" He landed in a heap of limbs, defeated and pissed off.</p><p>                Dutch emerged from the chair near his tent and made his way toward the commotion.</p><p>                "All right there, son?" Dutch extended his hand to Arthur, who wordlessly accepted.</p><p>                The gang leader helped him to his feet, but did not let go. Instead, Dutch pulled him a bit closer to the fire to observe his blackened eye, bloodied nose, and split lip. As Dutch opened his mouth to speak, Arthur interjected.</p><p>                "'M fine," Arthur grunted and jerked his hand away.</p><p>                “Of course you are," Dutch replied flatly and grabbed Arthur's right hand again. “What happened?”</p><p>                “Nothin' nice."</p><p>                For a long moment, Dutch turned Arthur’s hand over to regard the split and bruised knuckles.</p><p>                "'M fine," Arthur repeated.</p><p>                "Oh, Arthur," Dutch sighed. "My boy, my son...my killer..."</p><p>                "Come on, Dutch..." Arthur grumbled. "Not this, again."</p><p>                “Oh, come now, son.” Dutch grabbed his other hand and examined it, too. “Who had the misfortune of pissing you off tonight?”</p><p>                “’M fine,” Arthur repeated a third time through gritted teeth. “If we're done here, I’d like to get some <em>goddamn</em> sleep.”</p><p>                “We are anything but done.” Dutch smirked and rubbed his thumbs over Arthur's ruined knuckles. “Far from it.”</p><p>                Arthur winced and glared at his mentor. “Ain't in the mood, Dutch.” He tried to pull his hands free, but Dutch only held them tighter.</p><p>                “You're never in the mood. Are you, <em>boy</em>?” Dutch brought one of Arthur hands to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss to the broken skin. “<em>Lately</em>, anyways...”</p><p>                “What's gotten into you?” Arthur snatched his hands away as if he had been burned. “Someone might see!”</p><p>                “Let them,” Dutch mused with a smirk.</p><p>                “Hosea was right,” Arthur quipped as he crossed his arms.</p><p>                “Was he now?” Dutch's tone was playful.</p><p>                “You <em>are</em> crazy.”</p><p>                “I’ve always been crazy.” Dutch frowned.</p><p>                “What?”</p><p>                “Is this about Molly and I—"</p><p>                “Don’t.” Arthur interrupted.</p><p>                “Is <em>it</em>?”</p><p>                “It ain't.” Arthur found himself clenching his fists at his sides.</p><p>                “You’re a bad liar, Arthur Morgan,” Dutch scolded.</p><p>                “I ain’t got time for this,” Arthur grumbled as he turned around and stalked toward the horses and tack.</p><p>                “Where do you think you’re going?” Dutch followed at his heels.</p><p>                “Out.” Arthur started fussing with his horse and saddle.</p><p>                “You’ve only just got back!”</p><p>                “Huntin’ then..gang needs feedin'.”</p><p>                “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur!” Dutch moved so he was just standing behind the other. “I ain't touched Miss O'Shea in three weeks!”</p><p>                “Ten days last I knew, but who's counting?”</p><p>                “Arthur—"</p><p>                “Heard you fuckin’."</p><p>                “Son, you don't understand a man's got needs. I—"</p><p>                “Apparently, I understand money,” Arthur grumbled. “I’ll get you some goddamn money, Dutch. That make ya happy?”</p><p>                “Arthur—"</p><p>                “You always sayin' we need more money, if we ever gonna get to Tahiti, ” Arthur interrupted and turned toward Dutch. “I’ll go—"</p><p>                “I know what I said. ” Dutch laid a hand on Arthur's shoulder and sighed. “You understand a man's got needs, right? Things have been tough lately. The amount of stress and pressure I’m under…”</p><p>                “Whatever you say, Dutch.” Arthur shrugged Dutch's hand away.</p><p>                “I’d rather it have been you, Arthur.”</p><p>                “Dutch…” Arthur turned to face him then.</p><p>                “Do you trust me?”</p><p>                Arthur was quiet for a moment as defiance blazed in his blue eyes. “I ain't sure.”</p><p>                “Do you have my back?” Dutch sounded offended, hurt even.</p><p>                “’Course,” Arthur replied quickly. “Always, Dutch.”</p><p>                “Good.” Dutch regarded him for a moment before turning on his heel.</p><p>                “Where ya goin'?” Arthur called after him. The neediness in his own voice made him cringe.</p><p>                “Good night, Mister Morgan.”</p><p>                This was punishment. Arthur had fucked up. It was only fitting for Dutch to leave him needy and hard.</p><p>                “Goddamn it,” Arthur grumbled to himself. He stared after Dutch's silhouette until it disappeared within his tent.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to let me know what you think! Should I continue this into Mister van der Linde's tent?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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